


Lonely Roads, Long Nights

by asdfghjklpatrochilles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Multi, References to Supernatural (TV), Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asdfghjklpatrochilles/pseuds/asdfghjklpatrochilles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Sam decided to stop the trials to close the gates of hell earlier in season 8? What if Dean had found out Sam's imminent death before the finale, and in true Winchester style, decided to keep it from his brother? A Supernatural Alternate Universe depicting what could have happened if things took a different turn during Season 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I still haven't been able to revise this work. If anyone would like to edit it for me, feel free to message.

The soft purr of the impala’s engine was beginning to lull an exhausted Sammy into the sweet, open arms of sleep. Today had been an extraordinarily long one, filled with painful knife fights, not once allowing the boys a moment to rest. But Dean refused to give up on his brother, even if it meant not getting his four hours of shut-eye every night. He was determined to find a way to get Sam out this hell of a mess, and the only way to know was to question every single sonofabitch demon that walked the Earth. 

The trials were almost over, with only the third left. Sam’s body was slowly deteriorating, every cell in every muscle, organ, and nerve ripping to shreds, each and every day. Sam and Dean didn’t know it at the time, but this would be one of the last silent nights they would spend next to each other, listening to baby’s roar and Dean’s signature tunes. The soft melody of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” was currently flowing through the worn out speakers of the metal on wheels. 

Dean’s eyes were solely focused on the eerie road ahead, the headlights of the impala the only source of illumination, but his mind was spinning in a black abyss. He scoffed at the bitter irony present in the song. The last time he had heard those chords, he was reliving the blissful memory of Fourth of July, 1996 inside his very own, personal heaven. 

Dean’s thoughts adjusted from past to future as he checked the rear view mirror. Part of him desperately wished he could carry out the trials himself, creating hypothetical situations in which the opportunity to kill a hellhound would arise. The other part knew that Sammy would never forgive him, and that wasn’t a chance he was willing to take, not right now. All he could do was hope Kevin would translate the last trial in a timely manner, so Sammy wouldn’t have to be in agonizing pain any longer. 

Dean shifted his gaze to his crippling brother. Sam’s heavy, erratic breathing could be heard over the engine, worrying Dean. Without a second thought, Dean quickly brought the impala to a halt, the sudden force causing John’s dusty, vintage cassette tapes to fall off the back seat onto the carpeted floor. He didn’t want to wake Sammy, but his head was running wild with worse case scenarios, and his instincts took over before he could form a coherent thought. 

“Sam…Sammy,” Dean stammered, placing his calloused hands on Sam’s muscular shoulders, gently shaking him. 

No response. 

“Dammit Sam.” 

Dean’s worry grew, and so did the intensity of his shaking. His heart rate climbed a mile a minute, causing a deep ache to arise in his chest. It was too soon, too soon for the unspeakable to happen. These trials weren’t meant to kill Sam, right? They couldn’t. He refused to believe he could lose his brother, the brother he’d raised and fought for his entire life. Not tonight, not when they were so close to the end of the otherwise dark tunnel. Dean didn’t believe he deserved an apple-pie life, but he sure as hell was going to crawl through the muck and fight as much he possibly could in order to make sure Sam had a chance of living behind a white-picket fence.

After a few more seconds of Dean’s forceful, repetitive motions, Sam’s eyes shot open as if he had died and come back to life, just as he had so many times before. Relief flooded Dean’s body, but he wasn’t at all calm, not yet. 

“Sammy, are you okay?” Dean’s voice cracked at every syllable. Leaving one hand on Sam’s shoulder, Dean used the other to wipe a bead of sweat off his brow. 

“Ya, Dean, I’m fine,” Sam stuttered, every part of his inhumanly large body shivering. He winced as he attempted to straighten his posture. Failing to do so, he sheepishly looked out the window, disappointed in his body. Dean knew Sam was lying. The overwhelmingly intense pain was written within his shimmering eyes as he starred into the never-ending blackness surrounding the impala.  
“Bullshit. You’re not fine, Samuel. You haven’t been for a long time.” 

Dean’s words burned through both the brother’s cores. Sam clasped his shaking hands in his lap, forcefully pressing on the three-year-old scar in the palm of his right hand. After waiting for what seemed like a lifetime, Sam had drawn the conclusion that everything happening around him was in fact real, and not a hallucination painted by his sleep-deprived mind. 

The brothers sat in silence; waiting for the other to made a snide comment. When neither attempted to lighten the mood, Dean decided that he had enough. 

“You’re hands can’t stop shaking. You’re eyes are as bloodshot as a junkie’s. You’re hair’s falling out, which might I say, isn’t exactly a bad thing,” Dean teased, attempting to not go all ‘mushy’ on the subject. Sam neither smiled nor laughed, and Dean shifted slightly in his seat, turning towards his shell of a brother. 

“Listen Sam. Shoving it down isn’t going to help. Its been long enough, too long if you ask me.” Putting the gear into park, Dean turned off the ignition and starred at Sam, making it perfectly clear that they weren’t going anywhere until Sam opened up.  
“Drop it Dean. It’s no use.” 

“Talk to me Sam, you’re falling apart. But damn it, we can fix this.” 

“Talking about it isn’t going to fix anything. It isn’t going to stop the trials, or put me back together. I’m okay, Dean.”  
Dean pursed his lips, calling bullshit on Sam’s lies. 

“Okay, let’s say hypothetically that physically, I’m not okay. Even if I’m falling apart, it doesn’t matter. The gates of hell have to close, or else every life taken by a demon is on my hands.” Sam continued to blankly stare out the window, his breath fogging up the glass.

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold on a second.” Dean raised his hands to his face, wiping off any dirt or grime that stuck to his freckled skin. Inhaling deeply, he straightened his posture, attempting to tower over Sam’s figure, who, even when shrugged into the fetal position, was taller than Dean. 

“Think about it, think about what we know, huh? Pulling souls from hell. Taking road trips to Purgatory. Hell, ganking a hellhound! We have enough knowledge on our side to turn the tide, here. You don’t have to go through with this Sammy. There are other ways, and you know it.”  
“That’s just it Dean. There is no other way! Not this time. No loopholes. Other people will die if I don’t do this. Look at me. Look at how close we are! One more trial and it will all be over.” Sam’s voice shook through the impala. Wide-eyed and hungry for the revenge he so desperately sought for his entire life. Within his grasp were the keys to hell, and with one flick of a wrist, he could close it forever, he could close that part of his life forever. He had the power to keep what happened to his mother, and Jess, from happening to anyone else ever again. Justice was at his fingertips, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stop reaching for it. It was almost over. All he ever wanted was for it to be over; even it meant his heart would stop beating. He knew that once he caught it, the only way Dean would be able to take it take it away from him would be to pry it from his cold, dead hands. 

Sam tilted his head up, finally conjuring up enough energy and courage to look his brother in the eye. When he looked into Dean’s eyes, something was different. For the first time in a long time, Dean looked scared. Genuinely scared. His eyes were glistening with tears that refused to fall onto his cheeks. Other than the tears, they were hollow, and empty. Sam searched, and searched, for anything, any emotion. To no avail, all he could find etched within Dean’s emerald green irises was terror. Pure, non-forgiving terror. Dean had broke into a thousand puzzle pieces, and Sam was the one who caused it. 

Torn between justice and his brother, Sam questioned himself, going back and forth between what he knew was right, and what he knew was best for his brother. 

Dean opened his mouth, chocking on the words before they escaped. After thinking it over for a moment, he decided to put into words both their thoughts, the thought they dare not speak of. 

“…you might die. Permanently. No angels to cram your soul back into your meatsuit. Hell, Cas is who knows where. No demons to make deals with. If I lose you, there’s no bringing you back.” 

“So,” Sam snapped, his voice sounding colder than he intended. “Don’t you think I know that? I’ve played out every possible outcome in my mind, and almost all of them end with me in the ground. It wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t matter.”

Dean looked at his little brother, not picturing him as the defeated, broken man sitting before him, but the intelligent, hopeful young boy who used to dream of a life involving four walls and a roof instead of filthy motel rooms. The thought of burying his brother was anything but trivial, even though Sam made it seem like his funeral would be just another day in the life of a hunter. 

“Do you seriously believe it wouldn’t matter to me? Because none of it—nothing you just said—is true. Listen, man, I know we’ve had our disagreements okay? Hell, I know I’ve said some junk that set you back on your heels.. But Sammy…come on. I killed Benny to save you. I’m willing to let Crowley and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don’t you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that. I’m begging you. Even if there’s only the slightest chance these damn trials might kill you, I need you to know that I can’t do this. I can’t gank monsters and save the world, not alone.” 

Dean slid his hand into the door handle, forcefully pushing it open without hesitation. Swinging his legs out, he quickly stood up and wiped the single tear that rolled out his eye off his face. The crisp air bit at his cheeks, and the breeze tousled his golden hair. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and leaned against the hood of the impala before whispering to himself “fuck.” 

It took a moment for Sam to open the passenger door and walk around the front of the car, stumbling more than once. Dean sighed, attempting to ignore Sam’s pain-filled groans, but eventually gave into his compulsive need to take care of his little brother.  
“Sit down for God’s sake.” 

Sam obeyed, leaning against the freshly washed, pearl-black hood. 

“You can barely do it with me,” he mumbled. Dean could barely hear Sam’s distraught voice in the swirling wind. 

“What?” 

“You can barely do it with me,” he groaned, applying more effort to the volume of his voice, to ensure Dean could understand him. 

“What do you mean,” Dean inquired, confused. 

“Hunting. The job. Saving people. I mean, you think I screw up everything I try. You think I need a chaperone, remember?” 

Dean scoffed. “Come on, man. That’s not what I meant.” 

“No, it’s exactly what you meant.” Sam shifted his weight onto his other hip, since his right was beginning to fall numb. He brushed the long brown locks out his vision and continued, looking Dean square in the eye. “You want to know what my greatest sin is? What I told Cas when he asked why I took on the trials? It was how many times I let you down. I can’t do that again. Face it Dean. You don’t trust me. You haven’t since the wall came down and Lucifer broke my grapefruit.” 

“Sam—“ Dean started, but Sam interrupted him, not allowing him to finish. 

“No Dean. What happens when you’ve decided I can’t be trusted again? I mean, who are you gonna turn to next time instead of me? Another angel, another—another vampire? Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch your own brother just—“ 

This time Dean interrupted Sam, his irritation getting the best of him. He couldn’t hold it in; listening to Sam talk was too painful. 

“Hold on! Have you even been listening to what I’ve been trying to tell you? I killed Benny, for you Sam. Not for Cas, not for anyone else.—for you. And you know what? I do know what its feels like to watch your brother lose faith in you. I do know what it feels like to watch your brother give up in front of your own eyes. Don’t you dare act like this is one sided. I would do anything for you. Do you hear me—anything! How many times do I have to tell you, its you and me, together, fighting evil, saving people. There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you!”  
It was silent. Only the wind and rustling of tress could be heard. There were no cars, or animals near by. Just two brothers, an impala, and the shining stars overhead.

“How do I stop,” Sam choked out. Tears streamed down his face, wetting the collar of his red flannel. His puffy eyes resembled the color of his shirt. Every part of his body, his chest, his head, felt as if he was about to explode. As if resisting the trials might end up killing him anyways, at least that’s what he felt like—death. 

The corners of Dean’s mouth turned upward, even though he knew they weren’t out of the ballpark yet. For a moment he thought, what was next? Well, he knew what was next, but he also knew he couldn’t tell Sam, or else he would try to stop him. Knowing the burden of the trials would no longer be on Sam’s shoulders, but on his, some how calmed him, and his previous tense demeanor diminished.  
“Just let it go.” His words were as clear as day, but Sam couldn’t quite make out what he meant. 

“I can’t. It’s in me, Dean. You don’t know what this feels like,” Sam protested. A knot was forming in his chest, one he was afraid would never disappear. Something was wrong, something different, and something new. 

Dean walked over to Sam’s side, letting his fingers trail along the smooth surface of the impala. He brought his freezing hand up and clutched onto Sam’s warm shoulder. 

“Hey, listen, we will figure it out okay? Just like we always do. Come on.” Wrapping his arms above Sam’s shoulders, he brought Sam into a warm embrace, pulling him down to his level. At the time, it didn’t matter that Sam was several inches taller than him, Dean was programmed to automatically revert into ‘big brother mode.’ 

“Come one, Let it go, okay? Let it go, brother.” Sam’s sobbed racked through his body, forcing Dean to attempt to hold him still. The moment didn’t last long, ten seconds at most.

Sam pulled away from the hug, looking down at his forearms, which appeared to be glowing a light, neon shade of orange, almost as if a million miniature candles were burning under his skin. His veins glowed abnormally red, the color artificial, not natural. 

“Hey, Dean. What’s happening?” Sam screamed, his voice a deep rasp. Before Dean could answer, Sam’s head contorted backwards in an inhuman nature. Dean rushed to Sam’s side, slinging his arm around Sam’s back. His adrenaline kept him from being crushed by Sam’s weight, grunting as he tried to walk him to the passenger door. Leaves scattered upon the road by the wind cracked beneath their heavy footsteps. 

“I’ve got you little brother. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Dean remarked, his tone emitting confidence, not a single shred of doubt to be heard. In fact, Dean knew everything was going to be okay. Kevin had told him so.


	2. Passing the Torch

**FLASHBACK TO 48 HOURS EARLIER**

The dark, heavy bags beneath Kevin’s eyes showed Dean that he hadn’t slept for more than five hours in the past three days. With his head burrowed elbow deep into a book filled with ancient symbols, Kevin took another bite of his sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The lights in the library emitted a soft glow, just bright enough for Kevin to read the words on pages of lore while not straining his sleep deprived eyes.

The smell of day old coffee flowed through the warm air of the bunker, throwing Dean’s senses into overdrive. Pouring another heaping dose of whiskey into the black, opaque liquid, he took in a deep breath. The caffeine from the coffee was just enough to balance out the warmth from the booze, so he could still feel a buzz, but not appear incompetent. After years of attempting to perfect the ratio of coffee to alcohol, Dean had managed to figure out the golden recipe. He was browsing through some lore regarding the not-so-unfamiliar subject of hellhounds, searching for a symbol Kevin had asked him find, when Kevin hastily shot up out of his chair. 

He threw his hands down on the table, in an attempt to regain his balance, and shouted for Dean. 

Quickly, Dean slid out of his chair and ran towards Kevin, who was now caressing the demon tablet in his lead-stained hands. 

“What’s wrong,” Dean barked, grabbing his cocktail coffee and stumbling down the few steps of stairs it took to get from the front of the bunker to the library. 

“Did you figure out the third trial?” 

Like a deer caught in headlights, Kevin starred down at the tablet, mumbling to himself. He appeared confused, almost like he was silently debating with himself whether or not he should tell Dean the information he had just translated. 

“Come on, Kev. Whatdya’ got,” Dean asked, impatiently. His breath reeked of whiskey and he knew it, but he was too focused on Kevin’s latest revelation that he didn’t try to cover it up like he usually did with a stick of gum. 

Kevin spun his head around, moving his eyes so they covered every inch of the room. He wanted to ensure Sam wasn’t nearby, listening to their conversation. It was in that moment Dean knew something was wrong, terribly wrong. 

“It can be transferred…” Kevin stated. He was calm, methodical, detaching any emotion he had regarding the subject. 

“What do you mean?” Dean walked closer to Kevin, and rested his hand on the back of one of the mahogany chairs. He took a swig of the now room temperature coffee, the whiskey causing a slight burning sensation to arise in his throat, a feeling he knew all too well. 

“…the trials, they can be transferred to another person.” 

The white, porcelain mug fell from Dean’s hand, shattering on the wooden floorboards, quickly dispersing its contents over any object in a two-foot radius. 

“Son of a bitch.” Dean leaned over to pick up the sharp pieces of the destroyed mug, but decided he would clean the rest of it later, after Kevin told him what the fuck he was talking about. His head was spinning and the room seemed like it was warping before his very own eyes, but he remained still, pretending that every part of his soul hadn’t lit on fire, angering him. 

“Directly translated, ‘if he who commenced the trilogy of tasks performed to terminate the portal conjoining Hell and Earth desires to withdraw from the tasks, he may place the trilogy upon the shoulders of a capable and willing man.’ At least that’s what this dude ‘Metatron’ says.”

“Well, that don’t tell us jack squat,” Dean hissed, his agitation bubbling inside his chest.

“Maybe it isn’t exactly, one-hundred percent clear on how Sam can hand over the trials to someone else, but I am one-hundred percent sure that it is possible.” Kevin continued to explain the new information, insisting that the trials could be transferred, even if the details directing how to do so were hazy. 

“So, what you’re saying is, Sam can just pass the torch to me?” Part of Dean hoped Kevin would say ‘no,’ that he was mistaken, so that he didn’t have to choose between his brother’s life, and his brother’s trust. The other part didn’t care if Sam hated him, as long as his blood was still pumping; as long as Sam was still breathing.  
Kevin nodded, an onyx colored lock of hair falling onto his face. He hadn’t washed it for a few days, the oils building up on his dandruff-filled scalp. 

“Naturally,” Dean muttered. His tone had changed, becoming more playful, an invisible wall shutting his true emotions in his head. 

If Kevin truly meant that the trials could be transferred to another person, Sam could be okay. No more pain, no more burden. It could all rest upon Dean’s shoulders, and the weight surprisingly didn’t seem to plague him like it did all the times before. This time, it was a mere inconvenience not knowing whether he would be walking among the living after he hypothetically completed the trials. 

Dean’s internal debate lasted the remainder of the day. The only reason he was able to drift into sleep was due to his personal bottle of cheap scotch. 

The next morning, Dean woke with a purpose. It had been months since he woke up and genuinely desired to leave the warm safety of his memory foam mattress. 

For twenty-four strenuous hours, Kevin and Dean researched incessantly. By the end of the day, Dean swore he had looked through every book cataloged in the library. Although his mind was fried and his eyelids would only stay open with a verbal command, it was worth it. They had concluded that the steps were fairly simple in comparison to the trials themselves: Sam needed to want to pass the torch, and Dean needed to want to accept it. All that Dean would need to do was mutter some Enochian gibberish and the process would be over. 

After everything, he still didn’t know what to do. Why was it so difficult for him to make a decision? Maybe it was the uncertainty of it all. He didn’t know if the trials could take his brother away from him. Hell, he didn’t know if the trials would even slam the gates of hell for eternity. All he knew was that Sam was in pain and he had a resolve to take it all away. 

Dean’s internal monologue was still rolling in his mind when Sam appeared in his peripheral vision. His hair was pointed in all directions, like it hadn’t been properly combed in a while. He looked like ghost, his face as white as fresh, winter snow. Eyes sunken into his skull, hands trembling while clinging to the wall for support.  
“Goddamnit Sammy, why don’t you sit down,” Dean remarked. 

“I’m fine, Dean, just a little dizzy, that’s all.” He stumbled along the side of room, making sure he had an object to balance his weight upon with every step. Books, opened and closed, were scattered throughout the room, and Sam was careful to maneuver around the select few that had somehow ended up on the floor. “Ya, sure, whatever you say girl interrupted.” 

“Seriously Dean, this is not the time to joke about mentally unstable people. It’s not like I’m hallucinating Lucifer again. I’m perfectly fine,” Sam scoffed, attempting to hold back a smile. Whether or not he cared to admit it, Dean’s cheesy references added a bit of normalcy to their lives; normalcy that they desperately needed. 

“Shut up and appreciate my cultured sense of humor,” Dean joked, “it ain’t everyday you get the Dean Winchester seal of approval. You should feel honored for being the punch line to my joke.” 

Nostalgia filled the air. Recently, Dean’s usually playful joking had been kept to a minimum, only making references to pop culture when a perfect opportunity arose. It was similar to when a dog doesn’t eat, which typically meant something was seriously wrong.

“So, what’s with all the books?” Sam inquired, his eyes scanning the untidy room. 

“Well, while you, Miss Sleeping Beauty, were taking the longest catnap in history, Kevin freaking Solo over here’s been working his ass off.” Dean ran the fingers of his right hand through his golden locks, while sliding his left into his pocket. The only thing Dean had decided was that Sam couldn’t know how the trials could be transferred, at least not until he could think it all over. He was attempting to pull a fake explanation out of thin air, but to no avail, he continued with his vague responses. “Couldn’t let him rot by himself. Besides..thought maybe my persistent nagging would speed up the process a little. And might I say, boy was I wrong.” 

Kevin shot Dean the deadliest expression that had ever crossed his face. He knew Dean was only trying to convince Sam that they hadn’t found anything, but did he seriously have to go this far? He wasn’t completely incompetent. In fact, their asses wouldn’t even be in this position if it wasn’t for him. 

“So you’ve really got nothing, uh?” Sam asked, his eyebrows furrowing, disappointment clearly stricken across his face. It was obvious he was trying to cover up his dismay, but Sam never won the award for “best actor” when it came to his feelings. Unfortunately, only Dean could hold that title. 

“Nope. Zip zero. Nada—“ Dean was cutoff by Kevin’s irritated voice. 

“He gets it Dean. I’m a failure.” He was trying to follow Dean’s lead, slowly catching on.

“Nah Kev. You’re just…stuck.”

“Ya, well maybe I could actually get some work done if you two stopped interrupting me every time I’m in the middle of a breakthrough.” Kevin wasn’t acting anymore, and Dean knew it. 

“Alright, alright. Calm down. We’ll back off, for now, as long you get back to work. Okay, Hemingway?” 

Kevin nodded his head, collecting his thoughts and cooling down. Sam stared off into something neither Dean nor Kevin could see, his eyes blank. 

Dean sidestepped over to Kevin before quietly leaning down and whispering into his ear, “please don’t speak a word of this to Sam, you understand me?” Kevin understood, and went to sit back down in front of his scattered, yet organized stack of papers.


End file.
